Definition
by JojoLightningfingers
Summary: The dictionary isn't helpful when it comes to describing love. Shiraishi/Kirihara, very long, smut.


**This could EASILY be the longest oneshot I've written ever. Oh my lord. I'm writing this at 3:30 in the morning, I spent the last few hours typing this, and there are bound to be spelling mistakes, but you know what? I don't care. I'm exhausted and I want sleep.**

**So without further ado, enjoy my long, cheesy tribute to my personal (second) favorite crack pairing in The Prince of Tennis, Shiraishi and Kirihara.**

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><p>Kirihara didn't know what love was like. In school, he had heard bits and pieces of conversations on the subject between two or more girls before snorting in disgust and tuning them out. Niou had once remarked with a smirk that maybe having a girlfriend would even out his temper. He had promptly punched Niou in the face—this earned him extra laps, which he ran while the older boy was restrained by Yagyuu and Jackal.<p>

It wasn't that he didn't want to love—in fact, he craved it without conscious thought. Kirihara simply pushed all affection offered to him away without knowing it. He was cocky and arrogant, and that put the rest of them off. He didn't understand at all...

But when he faced that Fuji Syusuke in the Regional finals, he knew. He must have fought an angel—that was the best he could describe it, for the boy with the eyes of sharp, clear blue wreathed with red could not have been human, the way he played. Kirihara felt and saw things he wished he hadn't—the crawling sensation of being hunted, and the pain of his techniques turned against him. Later, he was told it was an accident, but even so.

The match had shown him that violence was not necessary. His self-doubt started to show in the Invitationals; Kirihara often found himself playing the wall, steadily wearing a dent into the concrete with his mind tortured by a cackling figure wearing a demon's mask. He grit his teeth and smashed the ball into the wall hard enough to crack it.

So began his changes. It was gradual, but it happened, so steadily he barely noticed. He aimed not to injure, but to avoid. This applied only to the court, however; he would still brawl with Kamio whenever occasion demanded. It was a delightful refreshment.

* * *

><p>So here he was in the U-17 tournament, the definition of love still eluding him. To his left, he could see out of the corner of his eye Shiraishi Kuranosuke wrapping his arm with a pained grimace.<p>

Kirihara had seen Shiraishi once or twice during the Nationals, but never had spoken to him. The air he carried reminded him a little bit of Yukimura—very take-charge and no-nonsense.

The black-haired boy felt sick with himself, staring at the bruise on Shiraishi's arm. The gold he wore had kept it from snapping, but it didn't lessen the guilty feeling. Previously, Kirihara would have had no qualms about beating the hell out of his doubles partner, but now it seemed wrong.

In the midst of his self-disappointment, one thought kept breaking the surface—how Shiraishi had commented on his hair in the middle of the match. Random compliments weren't something he was used to receiving. He toyed aimlessly with a stray strand, thinking.

Kirihara did not like being called a seaweed head—hated it, in fact. Even though it was difficult to manage, his mother had fawned over it, always saying she wished she could have his curls, thus he felt inclined to like it as well. Perhaps Shiraishi could be added to the short list of people who didn't make fun of the innocent look it gave him. He curled the strand around a finger and tugged absently, as he did in those rare instances where he was deep in thought.

Shiraishi caught the boy staring at him. He tightened the bandage and tied it off. "What is it?"

Kirihara hadn't realized where he was looking. "Hm? Ah, nothing. I'm sorry for your arm, that's all."

"It's fine, there's nothing to worry about," he replied amicably. While Kirihara didn't necessarily agree with that, he decided not to press the issue.

A few moments of silence passed between them. "I wasn't lying when I said I liked your hair," Shiraishi murmured, letting his eyes travel over it fondly.

"Yeah...?" he responded absently, turning away slightly to hide the rogue rising in his cheeks. He fought it back—for after all, Kirihara Akaya did NOT blush.

The ash-haired boy said nothing, gazing at the back of Kirihara's head and resisting the urge to reach out and tangle his fingers in the wavy black locks. He might not escape with just a bruise if he did that.

The feeling of his stare made Kirihara turn. "What are you looking at?" he growled, leveling the captain with a glare.

Shiraishi didn't seem to notice the eyes boring into him. "Kirihara-kun, I'm curious. Do you have anybody that you consider a friend?"

The devil slitted furious eyes toward the older boy. "Not really, what's it to you?" he snarled defensively, hackles raised.

"I see," Shiraishi replied vaguely. The Shitenhoji captain regarded Kirihara with an expression that made the younger boy shuffle uncomfortably. He had the distinct sensation of being meticulously picked apart and analyzed.

"In that case, might I become your friend?" _This way,_ he thought, _it will be easier to keep my promise to Yanagi._ Pity, too, drove him to extend his hand to the lonely boy.

There followed an awkward silence in which Kirihara continued to watch Shiraishi closely and Shiraishi awaited his response. Eventually, Kirihara remembered to blink and said, "Do what you want."

The captain gave him a reassuring smile. Noting the clock behind his head, he perked up. "It's almost time to eat—should we go down and get something?"

Grateful for the distraction, the other agreed, standing and exiting the room with the older boy close behind.

* * *

><p>That night, Kirihara absolutely could not fall asleep. The day had kept his mind off of Shiraishi, for the most part, but now that he was alone, it was all he could think about.<p>

If complimenting his hair hadn't been weird enough, the two questions he'd had put to him took the cake. Nobody had ever wanted to be his friend—so why should this complete stranger just up and ask him if he could be?

He worried away at the thought until the room finally felt too confining for him. The black-haired boy flung the covers off with an irritated grunt and left the room, going down the hall. There he wandered futilely, his mind still running the same circle over and over. When he happened to look up, he realized with a start that he was in front of Shiraishi's room. He halted there and blinked. A long, confused two minutes passed before he hesitantly turned away and continued down the hall.

After a moment, his pace quickened, and continued to do so until he was flat-out running, feet thudding hard on the floor. His eyes had gone slightly wide and he was panting as he rounded the corner to the kitchen area and leaned heavily on the wall, sagging down until he sat on the floor. Superstitious he was not, but how had he managed to walk directly to Shiraishi's room? Until a few minutes ago, he hadn't even known where it was. It sent an eerie prickling down his spine; he hugged his knees to his chest and rested his forehead on them.

_This is nuts,_ Kirihara told himself. _Why am I letting this bother me so much? Vice captain Sanada would no doubt be rolling his eyes if he knew._

The better part of twenty minutes went by before he realized that a clock was ticking nearby. Tiredly, Kirihara raised his head to check the time before remembering how dark the room was. Grumbling, he uncurled himself, wincing at his creaking limbs. When he was close enough to the clock to note that it was well past midnight, he sighed and turned, setting off down the hall again and knuckling the exhaustion out of his eyes. This little jaunt was going to cost him in the morning, that was certain.

It took Kirihara another ten minutes to find his way back to his room, his previous thought-cycle continying until he pulled the blankets up and closed his eyes, by which point he was asleep.

* * *

><p>"Oy. Kirihara." Something poked his temple. Kirihara picked his head up off the table and blearily opened his eyes. Shiraishi's blurry shape sharpened into focus. The captain sat down next to him. "Are you feeling okay?"<p>

He was, in fact, not feeling okay. "Couldn't sleep last night," he mumbled. "Went to bed around one..." It was so hard to stay awake.

"You know you can't do that," Shiraishi admonished.

"I know, mother," he groused, closing his eyes again and resting. Kirihara did not like being told what he already knew.

The ash-haired boy wasn't offended. "So I take it you're not a morning person?" he asked, taking a bite out of an apple. Kirihara's grumpiness was endearingly familiar; Kintarou could be that way on a bad morning.

"Nope."

"Then I'll be quiet and not bother you."

There it was: the sensation of be pulled out of his comfort zone again. He gave Shiraishi a mildly surprised look. He would have felt so much more at ease if the other boy had continued to talk to him, maybe even tease him, like Niou and sometimes Bunta did on mornings exactly like this. "No, it's fine," he sighed, closing his eyes.

Shiraishi chuckled. He would have happily obliged, except he wasn't entirely sure what to say now. He settled for finishing off his apple and sitting quietly. Beside him, Kirihara had dozed off, curly-haired head rested on the table. He looked so peaceful, so harmless compared to the red-eyed beast that had nearly broken his arm yesterday.

The captain was quite taken by the uncharacteristic appearance. He reached out and placed his hand on Kirihara's head, fingering an errant curl. It was a little coarse and tangled—no doubt Kirihara had little time to manage hair so naturally troublesome. His face softened into something resembling contentment; Shiraishi ran his hand through the thick locks.

Kirihara murmured in his sleep, eyelids fluttering. Shiraishi withdrew his hand, coloring slightly, and took his shoulder, shaking him awake. The boy sighed and sat up straight, head in hands and eyes still closed. Shiraishi couldn't help but chuckle at his pouty face. "You'll wake up after you run your laps," he said, patting his back and standing up. Kirihara followed, rubbing his eyes. "I'll walk with you; gotta make sure you don't run into anything."

He would have objected, had he been fully functional, but considering that he was pretty much braindead and didn't want to get a concussion, he silently nodded and let Shiraishi lead him out to the field.

* * *

><p>Granted, the black-haired boy was more awake by the time he had stretched and run a few miles. Still, the constant, slowly-pulling feeling of tiredness weighed on him, and he couldn't stop his mind from wandering occasionally. He was thinking too much about Shiraishi, and his game was showing it. He won, certainly, but by a fractional margin at best. He wandered listlessly away from the court, wiping his brow and nearly walking straight into Yukimura.<p>

Yukimura waved away his hurried apologies with an, "It's okay, Akaya." Changing tack, he asked, "Are you well? You look preoccupied."

"Just tired, captain," Kirihara sighed, leaning on the fence. He didn't want to talk feelings with his superior. His eyes wandered to Shiraishi finishing up his match.

"I don't buy that. I've known you for two years—I can tell that something's on your mind." The purple-haired boy leaned by him. "You know better than to lie to me." His eyes followed the direction of Kirihara's stare.

The reprimand made him sigh again. "I don't really want to talk about it."

"Very well. But get whatever it is straightened out, because I don't want it affecting your play." Yukimura walked off, the fence rattling slightly.

_Good idea,_ he thought about saying, _except I don't even know what it is I'm worked up about._ But giving Yukimura lip would certainly get him punished, so he decided against.

* * *

><p>Shiraishi came to his room after dinner. "Are you feeling alright? You didn't come down." He shut the door after himself and sat down on the edge of the bed.<p>

Kirihara felt his stomach knot painfully for lack of food. "Wasn't hungry," he lied, though the words were muffled by his he was curled up on his side.

"Oh," Shiraishi replied, unconvinced. "Well, if you do get hungry, I brought you some of mine." He set a bag down on the table; Kirihara could hear the rustling. The bed sprang as Shiraishi stood and exited the room.

The devil waited until he couldn't hear Shiraishi's footsteps in the hallway before rolling over curiously to inspect the food. There were rice balls and assorted roasted meats and vegetables, which he knew Shiraishi didn't like. His lips twitched into a smile. "He's such a bad liar."

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><p>Three weeks, this went on, until Kirihara's nagging thoughts and increasingly sloppy gameplay got to him and he finally pulled Shiraishi aside before dinner.<p>

"What is it?" Shiraishi asked.

"Could you tell me why? Why you're so intent on this whole 'friends' deal?"

The captain was silent. Kirihara grew both worried and irritated as time passed, his fist slowly tightening by his side. Shiraishi's wooden stance cracked; his shuoulders slumped and he softened his face. "Let's go somewhere else."

Kirihara readily accepted—as long as he was getting an explanation, he couldn't care less where he was getting it.

Shiraishi led Kirihara to his room. Once the door was secured, he turned and fixed the black-haired boy with a contemplative gaze. "At first, I was asked to do it," he explained. "Yanagi proposed the idea—and Yukimura-san agreed—that since your devil mode is so unpredictable, I should become your friend. They're concerned about your mind..."

The black-haired boy felt shafted. He was not a dog and Shiraishi was not his collar. He didn't need false affections to keep him under control. His face darkened. "I see. Having a good laugh, aren't you?" He whirled around and marched toward the door, wanting to get out before he slugged the older boy. Aside from the fact that Shiraishi had a gold plate on his arm that he really didn't want to get hit with, he found he didn't have the desire to hurt someone who had shown him kindness, no matter if it was a lie.

"Kirihara, wait—" Shiraishi started, moving to reach for his arm. But he was gone.

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><p>The next few weeks were hard on them both. Kirihara refused to even look at Shiraishi, much less talk to him. Every time the older boy went anywhere near him, Kirihara stopped what he was doing and left. The petulant child act really pissed Shiraishi off. He'd have told him, but there wasn't any opportunity for it.<p>

Kirihara's game was slowly drifting toward the other extreme. Once, while running the words through his head again, it got him so mad that he almost broke his racket on the return shot. His eyes flickered red and the ball smashed into the boy's face. He didn't remember the boy's name, nor did he care. He did feel a slight pang of regret as he was helped up by the announcer, but it was quickly crushed by boiling fury.

Yukimura had seen. It was so out of place for him now, he knew—or guessed—what had transpired. He shot Shiraishi a dangerous look from. The other captain, sitting on the bench beside him, shrugged helplessly. Yukimura grunted and settled back. Suspicions thus confirmed, the only thing he could do was wait.

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><p>Shiraishi cornered Kirihara eventually. It took some doing, since the younger boy was so perceptive of his presence, but he eventually trailed the boy without being seen or heard and followed him to his room. The slight noise of the door clicking a second time made Kirihara turn around—his heart nearly popped when he saw Shiraishi standing there. The captain was blocking the only exit now—there would be no escape from this talk. He knew it too, growling.<p>

"What do you want?"

"You never let me finish that day," he said, leaning against the door frame. "I said _at first_ I was asked to."

Kirihara blinked as it clicked. How could he have been so dense? "Okay..." He sat down on the bed and watched him suspiciously. "I'm listening..."

"I don't know when it started, but... I care for you and your wellbeing. I don't like seeing lonely people—everyone should have at least one good friend they can trust."

The devil stared for a second before breaking into a grin. "You're a sap," he teased.

"Maybe so," Shiraishi chuckled. "But I really am sorry for you. And I want to continue to be your friend, if you'll let me."

"Mm... I'm sorry for being an ass these last few weeks..."

"I forgive you, Akaya."

Kirihara smiled.

* * *

><p>From then on, Kirihara slowly warmed up to Shiraishi more and more. He was ever so gradually getting a grasp on the meaning of love. Love, as he perceived it, was the feeling he got whenever Shiraishi sat next to him with his gentle smile, the sort of nice, swelling ache in his chest, why he was always glad to see him. From day one, the captain had been nothing but kind to him—greeting him, talking about anything, encouraging and even praising him. It made his insides jump giddily, and he was grateful the world over to have met him. He couldn't tell Shiraishi that—he still couldn't find it in him to lower his pride that much. Plus he had a feeling that Shiraishi knew anyway.<p>

He was having trouble putting the 'feeling' into words, and curiosity finally made him ask Shiraishi directly (while they were alone of course). The older boy had paused, humming in deep thought. "I suppose it's when you enjoy being around someone and you want to stay with them for a long time." Thus answered, Kirihara nodded and left to ponder.

Shiraishi leaned against his door and raised his head to watch the flickering light on the ceiling. His definition was accurately describing himself... He enjoyed watching the once-broody devil smile at him and thank him. It made him feel like he'd done something right. He realized that he couldn't leave Kirihara now—and also that he didn't mind that.

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><p>Kirihara was rolled up under the covers with his eyes closed, thinking. <em>Enjoying someone's presence... and not wanting to leave them, hm...? <em>He flipped onto his side and sighed deeply. _That's me. God, I'm such a girl._ On that note, he drifted to sleep.

When he woke up, he didn't have the will to move for once. He half-thought he might want to stay and think instead of play today. Shaking off those mildly unsettling ideas after a minute, he got out of bed, clapped his cheeks, and set his mind toward the day. _I will conquer, and in doing this, I will train to climb to the top._ Kirihara nodded, resolve thus steeled, and put all thoughts of Shiraishi and love aside for later perusal.

As it happened, those thoughts were pretty hard to keep contained. They were just sneaky enough to slip through his mental bars whenever he wasn't totally focused, like between points and after games. Time and again, he pushed them back, and he figured that if he was to have any peace in this tourament, he was going to have to talk to Shiraishi.

That was not something he was looking forward to. Maybe he should wait, and Shiraishi would come to him first... or would taking the initiative make him the bigger man? Courage versus being a confessor... and he sincerely doubted that someone older and with more skill would own up to someone like him.

There was nothing for it then—Kirihara came to this conclusion in the middle of his game. He had no choice, he was going to have to man up if he was to get anywhere with Shiraishi. The sooner the better too—tarry too long and it was going to bug him and his nonsensical fantasies of the moment of confession would disturb him more and more, eventually to the point where he refused to do it. Best to get it done and over with, he decided.

Lunch break was the earliest opportunity he had, but that was no good. It was too short, and he had the nagging sense that this would take longer than he thought it would.

So he waited until the end of the day; he and Shiraishi heading down the hall with Yukimura and a few other people to their rooms. The moment the door to Yukimura's room closed, Kirihara grabbed Shiraishi's wrist and stopped.

Shiraishi halted, turned to look over his shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak; Kirihara pulled him down the hall before he could, mumbling, "I gotta talk to you." The captain said nothing, stumbling after the junior.

Kirihara shut the door when Shiraishi was inside. The taller boy flicked his hair in place and sat. "I'm listening. What is it?"

Shiraishi couldn't honestly say he was surprised when the boy's face went flaming red and he couldn't meet his eyes. The sight and the implications of the behavior both made his own face color. Well, he could wait for Kirihara to get his nerve up. He had unlimited patience.

The black-haired boy groaned in his head. He thought he had prepared, but now that it came to actually saying it, it was so much harder than he thought. He fidgeted back and forth, shuffling foot to foot and awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. At the same time as being embarrassed, he was also a little scared. Doing this, he suddenly realized, could drive Shiraishi away from him. He should have thought of this before—now he had committed himself to the confession. Wanting very much to break his head against a wall, he began, "I did some thinking... about what you said..."

"And?"

"And... love..." Kirihara swallowed the painful, slightly humiliated lump in his throat.

Shiraishi nodded patiently, watching him.

"And I think... I... might love you," he ended lamely. He immediately wanted to kick himself. Might? _Might?_ Crawling into a hole and dying was sounding like a pretty tempting option right about now.

To his amazement, Shiraishi chuckled at him. He looked up, hurt, angry, shamed, and a million other things all at once. It was written in his glare and on his face; he spun around and stormed for the door. It occurred to him, absently, that he was running away from his own room. He didn't care. He just wanted to get away.

Shiraishi sprang from the bed and caught him by the wrist—Kirihara struggled to pull it away. "You're so impulsive," the ash-haired boy said, keeping a firm grip on him. "I'm sorry for laughing, I just couldn't help but think that you looked very cute." The color of the other's face deepened and he started a hot protest, but Shiraishi overrode him. "You should know that I love you too."

Kirihara pulled his wrist free and stood still. The awkward silence stretched. "Thanks," he said at last. "I'm going to... get something to eat." A lie, given the time of day, and they both knew it, but Shiraishi gave a noise of assent nonetheless. Kirihara shut the door and leaned on the opposite side of it, grinning and face flushed with relief and victory. That had gone a little better than he'd thought it would.

* * *

><p>Nobody, save Yukimura, could really figure out what Kirihara was so happy about at breakfast the next day. Even then, the purple-haired boy had only a passing guess at best. Even people who had seen Kirihara tailing Shiraishi like a puppy often were confused at his subtle perkiness.<p>

Yukimura, if his guess was correct, was happy for him. He felt he deserved that happiness... he could only hope that his play remained unaffected, but he was confident that the young ace could focus through it now that he had sorted it out.

He was not proved wrong an hour later, watching Kirihara take another match with relative ease, and the Rikkai captain smirked to himself.

* * *

><p>It was barely a month later when the thunderstorm came. It started harmlessly enough, just a low, distant rumbling in the sky. Then the elements decided to park right on top of their building. The white-out lightning lit Shiraishi's windows like a camera flash, the thunder sounded like a bomb going off. Shiraishi was instantly awake. With a glance out the window, and the invisible and hissing rain with it, the captain sighed. Only a storm.<p>

Kirihara had once said that he was... edgy of storms. Edgy was the word he used—he was definitely not scared of them. So he claimed. Shiraishi smiled wryly. Thunder struck again and Shiraishi twitched involuntarily at how loud the noise was.

He slowly got out of bed and exited his room, padding silently down the hall until he got to Kirihara's room. Shiraishi knocked softly—no answer. He opened the door and slipped in, closing it with a muted click behind him. The lump on the bed was unmoving, but Shiraishi wasn't fooled. When he was close enough to see the boy's face, it was pale (though that could have been effects from the lightning) and his eyes were wide open. He flicked them upward at Shiraishi when he found him in his line of sight, and the captain could see him relax.

"What're you doin' here?" he asked in a quiet voice nearly overshadoweed with thunder.

"I was worried." That was all he needed to say. Kirihara grunted and moved aside. Shiraishi got in next to him, smiling at his contradictory nature. Kirihara was too proud to admit a weakness more than once, but not too proud to accept help with it. _He's like a little kid inside._ The captain snaked his arms around the form.

Kirihara accepted the embrace, nestling into Shiraishi's warm body. He was still too tense to sleep, but he enjoyed the loving touch. Drowsily, he felt one of Shiraishi's hands moving up to stroke his curls, sometimes absently twirling them about his fingers. Kirihara smiled softly and inched closer, lips pressed against the captain's throat.

The older boy hummed with contentment. The sheets and Kirihara's shirt rustled as he inched down to peck the boy's forehead. The skin flushed a light red and Shiraishi almost chuckled. He moved down enough to look the boy in the eyes. He had such pretty eyes; that shade of green was very becoming on him. The senior brushed their lips, fitting them together gently and he felt the other's breath hitch in surprise. But the eyes closed and the tension melted; Kirihara surrendered himself to the kiss. Shiraishi's own eyes wandered shut as he felt Kirihara's arms tentatively circle his waist.

For a blissful moment, Kirihara forgot the storm... then the thunder crashed and he jerked away; Shiraishi's arms tightened. The older boy asked if he was okay. "I'm fine," he grumbled.

Shiraishi ran a hand up his back. "Just focus on me," he murmured. "It won't be as bad."

Kirihara slowed his breathing and tried to do what he was told. He hesitantly reached Shiraishi's lips with his again, touching them lightly. Even the barest contact sent shivers down his back. Shiraishi kissed him again, the hand in his hair gently moving him closer. The junior's heart thudded—anticipation, maybe?—and he tightened his grip on the material of Shiraishi's shirt. The captain sighed through his nose and meshed his mouth to Kirihara's more firmly, coaxing it open.

The younger boy felt as though his heart would burst. Their tongues met, wet and unsure, and Kirihara stiffened. The thunder sounded again and he jolted forward, sealing their open mouths with force. Shiraishi hugged him close and slipped his tongue across Kirihara's, brushing a black curl behind his ear. The devil half-tensed, but the fluid slip of wet muscle playing with his own was so powerful that he eventually relaxed. The fervent desire he read in that kiss stirred him inwardly to faint want.

Their lips parted; both panted softly in the darkness punctuated with the loud bang of thunder and bright sheets of lightning. For a long time, they did and said nothing, simply staring at each other's face. Shiraishi's hands eventually shifted down, fingers curling around the hem of his shirt suggestively.

Kirihara's breath was short and shallow. He nodded—yes, Shiraishi could keep his mind off of that horrid storm. The hands slipped into his shirt. They were uncomfortably hot—the black-haired boy moved away from his grip for long enough to peel off the top, then shyly slunk back into his arms.

Shiraishi silently drew his fingertips up and down the lines on his back and arms, wandering through each little groove in the skin. He was well muscled, Shiraishi thought, skimming his fingers down the ridge of his spine. Kirihara shivered at the ticklish sensation, burrowing further into his arms. Goosebumps popped up on the plane of skin; Shiraishi indicated for him to turn over. He did, with some confusion.

Kirihara breathed deeply and evenly, idly watching the fingers skating down his front. The tingling set in wherever he touched—his collarbone, his chest, his stomach... His hands halted by his hipbones and moved back up again, brushing over his nipples lightly. The boy stiffened at the mild shock—the cold air had made them sensitive to touch. Shiraishi paused for a second, then rubbed one with his thumb. Kirihara's breathing jumped; he bit his lip.

The captain shuffled, pressing Kirihara's back against his chest and teasing the hardened nub with his fingers. The black-haired devil grew steadily more flushed, waves of heat sparking up his neck. His panting became audible, arms draped limply across his stomach. The little stings of pleasure made his heart beat faster, then slow, then speed up again. Shiraishi tweaked the nipple gently; he jolted and let out a sharp whimpering noise.

Kirihara sat up and threw the blankets away; his whole body was heating up and the cloth was too confining. He went to lay back down, but Shiraishi stopped him. He felt the tickle of lips moving down his body; something warm and wet swiped his chest. He glanced down; Shiraishi licked the bud again and his whole body seemed electrified. "A-ah?" he gasped, questioning. The captain closed his mouth over the pink bud and wrapped his arms around Kirihara's back.

The devil faced a dizzying shock of warmth; he tilted his head upward and breathed in short, quick spates. Hot, wet, and the smooth, almost frictionless sliding... he swallowed hard, hands resting on Shiraishi's hair and back. It felt so indescribably amazing—his body was so hot and so sensitive... Stifling whines, he closed his eyes, panting shakily openmouthed. The ebbing heat was draining south, rolling into a hard pit nestled in his stomach, pulsing faintly. Shiraishi bit the small bud; the knot flared and he yelped, a pleasured noise slipping from his lips. The captain smoothed his palm across Kirihara's side, damp with sweat. The devils fingers were shaking on his neck and his heart raced within his chest.

Shiraishi's breath was breaking too. He pulled his head away from Kirihara's body, silently shuffling them both for comfort. Kirihara leaned against the wall, Shiraishi hovering over him. The younger boy clenched his hands onto the back of his head and Shiraishi could feel them quivering. He lightly pecked the boy's chest for assurance, resting a hand on his stomach. His problem was prominent now; when he shifted against it accidentally, Kirihara arched his back and gave a low groan.

The soft, wanton sounds were spurs for Shiraishi; he reached down and fit his palm around the bulge in the loose sleep pants, to which Kirihara responded with a throaty, surprised moan. His fingers scrabbled at the captain's shirt, fumbling with the buttons on the front until he got it open and letting out another cry as Shiraishi's hand tightened. His head fell to the side, jade-colored eyes flicked to Shiraishi, a drop of sweat sliding off his temple.

Shiraishi's hand withdrew and he pulled his shirt off, revealing wonderfully tanned skin. It was that beautiful Osakan honey color; Kirihara leaned up to taste, latching his lips to Shiraishi's neck. It was warm and salty; he dragged his tongue along the lines, wanting to taste more. Shiraishi, seeing that he was occupied, lifted the younger boy's hips and began to work his pants down. Kirihara's hands slid down the slick seam of his sides, teeth digging into the other's flesh.

Kirihara's pants were flung to the side and quickly forgotten. Shiraishi drew his fingertips down the boy's stomach, making the muscles flutter and flinch. Kirihara bit harder. Shiraishi winced and dugged on his curls. "That hurt."

"Sorry." Breathless, he lay back, shining in the flash-lighting with the oily film of sweat, watching Shiraishi intently. His slender chest heaved. The captain leaned down and bit his neck, slowly slinking a hand around his length. Kirihara bucked and choked on a moan, the ball of heat in his core tightening. "Kura—!" he gasped.

It was like a lightning strike down his back. Shiraishi's breath caught and his face reddened. How a name could sound so sexy from another's lips was beyond him.

No more teasing.

Shiraishi removed his hand from between his legs. Kirihara found three fingers pressed to his lips; he snaked his tongue out to taste them. Shiraishi nodded and the devil took them into his mouth. Shiraishi twitched as he deliberately teased the web of skin between each digit, the oh-so-innocent face gazing back at him.

Kirihara opened his mouth when he was done; Shiraishi reached down and probed the tight entrance with one. The devil cringed away, apprehensive. Shiraishi brushed Kirihara's bangs back. "Just relax, Akaya." Kirihara took a steadying breath and nodded.

The digit pressed up and inside; Kirihara tensed instantly. Shiraishi breathed in want—what would this feel like...? His internal heat cranked up another few notches; he shook his head slightly and nudged another finger into him. Kirihara bit the inside of his cheek and tried to breathe evenly.

The third was downright painful. He bent his head and panted, but didn't make a sound beyond that. Shiraishi admired his tolerance for pain. He spread the fingers, stretching and loosening the boy in preparation. Even then, he did little more than squirm uncomfortably—it hurt, and it felt so weird... Then white exploded before his eyes. At first, he thought it was just another lightning bolt, but this was accompanied by a streak of pure, hot pleasure that sank into his skull. He bucked and moaned, nails biting into Shiraishi's back. Kirihara didn't notice that the fingers were gone before the older boy was stripped of his pants and bearing up into him with his arousal. The boy was a statue, waiting and giving him a chance to back out. Kirihara nodded, swallowing.

Shiraishi took Kirihara's sides and drew him closer, slowly pushing inside. The tight passage drew him up and clamped down, making him tip his head back and snap his hips forward unconsciously, moaning. "Ecstasy," he purred almost inaudibly. The devil clung to him and groaned over his shoulder; he felt so full and complete... He could have cried if Shiraishi hadn't started moving. His mind blanked with each powerful thrust, fingernails scraping down Shiraishi's back. The only sounds he gave were increasingly loud and incoherent moans. He was on fire, burning with the heat of the captain's body. He rocked with the motions, arching back to meet him—he felt like he would burst.

Through one half-opened eye, he saw Shiraishi's face, hazed and flushed with lust, foggy panting condensing on his skin. Kirihara closed the eye and gave a strangled moan as the captain brushed the curious spot within him again, shamelessly whimpering his name.

He barely took note of Shiraishi's hand reaching between them to wrap around his aching length; he let out a strained cry when he teased the sensitive head. His rough, calloused palm stroked him off jerkily, Kirihara throbbing needfully, almost sobbing at the painfully tormenting touch. The heat in his core was melting, like the sweat dripping off his limbs, and with a choked scream cut short by biting Shiraishi's neck, he came, spilling his seed onto his stomach and the captain's hand. The same liquid heat seemed to fill him—he heard Shiraishi groan through distorted senses.

Breathing clipped, the two rested, eyes closed, against each other. The afterglow died down and the heat became sweltering—they let each other go. Kirihara winced as Shiraishi pulled out—he was going to be sore in the morning, no doubt.

The thunderstorm had passed unawares; the night was silent. Kirihara, nearly asleep, thought aloud, "That's love?"

"Physically, yes," Shiraishi answered drowsily. "Both painful and wonderful, just like emotional love. Funny, isn't it?"

Kirihara chuckled weakly. "Love you... Kuranosuke," he sighed, quickly drifting off.

Shiraishi knew he was asleep, but he ran his hand through the thick curly hair, smiling. "And I you, Akaya."

* * *

><p><strong>Guys? Guys. Once again, I am SO sorry for how cheesy this is. I tried to pace myself and tried to develop their relationship: I don't know if I did a good job, but I really hope I satisfied you. I am never doing anything this long again unless it's in chapters. EVER. This took me LITERALLY four months to write.<strong>

**And now I'm going to sleep. Good. Night.**


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